


The Sound of Disappearance

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:46:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: After fifteen years of marriage, John and Sherlock are struggling. Something is wrong, but what? With their daughter grown and nearly gone, they no longer have a buffer from difficult conversations...so they simply avoid them. But hearts adrift may become astray. And John should know.





	1. Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HollySprite (GorgeousDeduction)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GorgeousDeduction/gifts).



> Thanks to @HollySprite (GorgeousDeduction) for the prompt! Hope you like it :)

“Sherlock?”

John padded down the hall, scratching the back of his neck. He yawned and stretched, surveying the kitchen. No Sherlock, then.

He made his way to the refrigerator and had a quick look inside—yes, the samples from last night’s experiment were gone. No doubt Sherlock had slipped out early to make his way over to Bart’s and consult with Molly. He’d always done that, of course. Nothing new there. It was just…

John shook his head, trying to shake off the malaise that had been plaguing him for months. He was unsettled, but he didn’t know why, exactly.

He switched the kettle on and leaned back against the cupboard, arms crossed.

Long-term relationships were not something in which he was an expert. This was his first. He had nothing to compare it to, save for those few brief years with Mary. Which was nothing to—what was it now?

John started as the kettle snapped off. He filled his mug and stirred in the instant coffee (he as not as fussy as some) and grabbed one of the bananas he had purchased the day before. Fortunately, they were still in tact and uncontaminated. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat heavily.

Fifteen years. It had been fifteen years.

Where had the time gone?

He ate his banana and stared at the wall across from him. A large piece of cork had been placed over the tile about a decade before. It was continuously covered—all of the artwork, stories, school reports and awards that they had once attempted to keep on the refrigerator door had shifted to this new, larger space. These days, there were several sophisticated sketches, three awards (two for academics and a rowing medal—gold), a recent acceptance letter from Trinity College, Cambridge and a postcard from Canada.

John’s phone rang. He pulled it out of the pocket of his dressing gown and checked the number, eyes immediately rolling.

“Yeah, hello, Harry.”

_“Johnny! Happy Anniversary!”_

“Thanks. Not for another two days, though.”

_“Don’t be so pedantic. How’s the ol’ ball and chain, anyway?”_

“Fine. Sherlock’s fine.”

_“Well, tell him congrats from me. God knows how he puts up with you, but he’s done it. What are you planning to celebrate?”_

“We—we haven’t really talked about it.” John shifted in his seat. He’d tried bringing it up a few months back, but Sherlock had brushed him off, saying it was too soon to discuss it.

_“You haven’t? Bit odd, isn’t it? You two are usually nauseatingly romantic about this sort of thing.”_

“Oh, it’s—we—we’ll do something, obviously. Just…Sherlock’s been busy with a case and with Lestrade’s retirement, there’s only one Yarder he really enjoys working with. Makes it a bit tougher for him.”

_“Maybe he should stick to giving lectures or something. Or write books.”_

John chuckled. He hadn’t actually told anyone that he was working on a book about their work—an extension of his blog, with a little more narrative flair. Sherlock had been very clear on his feelings about it.

“I’m sure he’d hate that.”

_“He’s got to start thinking about it. I mean, he’s only 52, but you’re—”_

“56. Hardly even considered middle-aged these days.”

Harry snorted into the phone. _“Come on! You two are getting a bit long in the tooth for running around after criminals. I’m sure the coppers would rather you stayed out of the way. You putting yourselves in danger probably makes more work for them than your ‘help’ prevents.”_

John tamped down on the instinctive flare of anger that his sister inevitably aroused. He wouldn’t take the bait—if he tried to defend Sherlock’s reputation, Harry would simply use it to springboard into a conversation about John’s usefulness to his genius husband: _“Wouldn’t you be better off sticking to what you know? Flu shots and foot fungus these days, isn’t it, Johnny?”_

“Is there something you wanted?”

There was a pause (which John chose to interpret as irritation). Finally Harry sighed. _“I’m celebrating an anniversary of my own next month—ten years sober. Just thought I would let you know that Min and I are having a little party. You two are welcome, of course.”_

“I’ll talk to Sherlock about it.”

_“Like you talked to him about your anniversary?”_

“Harry…” John growled.

_“Oh, lighten up. I’ll send you an invite. Take care, big brother.”_

The call ended and John stared at it in his hand. It never failed—just like their father had done, Harry had a gift for making John feel small and insignificant. And a failure. Always that.

The door downstairs slammed and John got to his feet. He knew the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps well enough by now. He was surprised, and a bit relieved, that his husband had not spent all day at the lab.

Sherlock burst through the door to the sitting room, his long grey wool coat swirling around him. He was as graceful and elegant as he had ever been—lean, restless, energetic. A force of nature.

“Morning,” John said amiably, stopping in the doorway from the kitchen.

“Oh, good morning. You’re up early today.” Sherlock did not look up from where he was digging for something in one of the piles on his desk. In the twenty years John had known the man, he had never developed any affinity for neatness.

“Something important?”

“Hmmm? Oh, well, I went to over to centrifuge some samples, but they’ve got some new equipment. It’s related to that new genetics technology Molly and I went to learn about last month. Revolutionary. I wanted to go back to that unsolved mutilation case from last year and see if this might provide some insight.”

“Ah. So…”

“Oh, and this was in the post.”

Sherlock stepped away from the desk and pulled something from his pocket. He moved close enough to reach out and hand it to John, but not close enough for a good morning kiss. Not that John needed one. Course not. They were fine without that kind of thing these days.

John took the postcard and turned it over. “Niagara Falls.”

“Yup. Says she’s heading out west next. Her friend Nira wants to see the plains.”

John glanced over the new missive from their daughter. He could almost hear the breathless description of the enormous waterfall in Rosie’s voice. He smiled to himself.

“She’s having fun.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“No, no. I’m not. It’s just—well, I hate her being away, is all. It’ll be nice when she’s back home.”

Sherlock gave him a hard look. “You’re the one who convinced her to take a gap year. She was prepared to go straight on to university, but _you_ said she should have some fun, see the world.”

John sighed, and dropped into his new reclining chair. “I know. And I meant it. It’s good for her. She’s a serious little thing, and she’s been raised by two workaholics. God knows she could use some perspective.”

Sherlock sat at his desk and swivelled to stare at John. “There is nothing wrong with focusing on work.”

“I know that, but…well, she’s such a tender-hearted creature. She is—thank god—nothing like her mother. I think she’s got the best bits of you and I. But she wants so badly to make us happy that I worry she’ll chose a life she doesn’t really want.”

“Is this about Cambridge again?” Sherlock’s voice took on a sharp edge.

“No, no. GOD no. I am not resurrecting that argument. Rosie was free to apply anywhere she liked. Her grades were great—perhaps not as great as yours would have been—but she also had her volunteer work and sport going for her. I knew it was likely she would get in somewhere like that. I just—she’s not like us, Sherlock. She’s…ordinary.”

“She is not.”

“She is.” John stood and walked the few steps that separated them. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “She works very hard and no one could ever call her stupid. But she is not like you—she doesn’t have that kind of cleverness. And she is not as restless as I am. She doesn’t need adrenaline. She hates it, actually.”

“She’s always been happy,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. He was ignoring John’s hand slipping between the strands of his salt-and-pepper hair. It was still curly, though considerably less fussy than it used to be. Less product, too, which John enjoyed.

“Oh, she loves us. Desperately. And she wants us to be proud of her. But she has no interest in the strange sort of life that we lead. She likes going to parties and spending time with friends. She wants to be an artist.”

“She’s very talented,” Sherlock agreed.

“She’ll read Classics or something, and she’ll do well. And she’ll probably win more medals for rowing. But in the end, she wants to live in a small village somewhere—in a cottage—painting and drawing and spending time with someone she loves.”

Sherlock was quiet as he continued to shuffle through the mess in front of him.

“You know,” John began cautiously, “it’s our anniversary coming up. Two days time.”

Sherlock made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

“I thought maybe we could take a mini-break somewhere? I know they’ve closed travel to Spain again, but France is nice this time of year. Or we could just do a little hotel up in the Lake Distri—”

John jumped back as Sherlock rose abruptly and made for the door.

“We can talk about it later.”

“But Sherlock…”

“Won’t be in for supper, so don’t wait anything for me.”

“Sherlock!”

“Sorry—got to dash. Bye!”

John stared after his husband, mouth agape and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

There was no denying it: something was terribly wrong.


	2. Barriers

Another two days passed and John was no closer to finding the opportunity to have a conversation with Sherlock about...whatever was going on. His husband was simply not at home.

Sherlock had always spent considerable time on "legwork," as Mycroft had once called it. John knew that and accepted it as part of the work, and part of Sherlock's insatiable, restless curiosity. However, after the fall, Sherlock had begun to learn how important it was that John know and understand what he was up to. And where. After everything they had been through with Mary and Sherlock's weird family—particularly once they had finally come around to a romantic relationship—Sherlock had gotten better at providing John with FYIs.

John didn't think it was an unreasonable request. It wasn't that he minded Sherlock going off without him. Not really. He had his own work, too, for god's sake. It was just that he wanted to be kept in the loop so he'd know, for instance, when his presence was important to Sherlock's safety. Or even whether or not he should bother with dinner. That sort of thing.

Normally, a three-day period with Sherlock somewhere else wouldn't have bothered him. But then normally, Sherlock would have been texting him at least three times a day to keep him informed. And normally, Sherlock hadn't spent a month sleeping in the extra bed in their daughter's room upstairs.

It had taken a while for John to catch on—which was ironic, really. Finally, three days ago, he'd had confirmation that the funny feeling he'd been wrestling with for weeks was actually dread. It was a blow to realize that Sherlock really had been finding excuses (a cold and cough, late nights out with the Yard, insomnia, etc.) not to sleep with him in the bed they'd shared for almost 16 years. 

Now here he was, on his wedding anniversary, sat at his desk at the surgery and staring at his phone as though magically it was going to reconnect him with the love of his life.

"Dr. Watson?"

John set his mobile down and pressed the intercom. "Yes, Paige?"

"Walk-in for you. You have time, if you would like."

"Sure, fine. Send them through."

He turned to face the door, forcing a smile as it opened and Paige ushered in his next patient. His own problems would simply have to wait.

"Hello Doc."

"Mr. Huang," John greeted his long-time patient, a middle-aged man from only a few streets over. He'd been a commercial driver before migraines and altered vision took his license. "How are you today?"

"Been better. You know." Mr. Huang took the seat beside John's desk and folded his hands in his lap.

"What's the problem?"

"Well, you know I've had a hard time with my job with everything."

"I had thought things were getting better with the new medication and that you were able to go back to work."

"Fewer migraines and I've been sleeping better. And the company gave me a spot in dispatch."

"That's good to hear."

"Problem is..."

"Yes?"

"With me sick and money being tight, my wife and I haven't...we've not been doing too well."

John took a deep breath.  _Christ._  "I'm very sorry to hear it."

"Yeah, she—she's decided to go off to her sister's for a bit."

"Oh, dear. And how are you doing with that?"

"Not good. I'm not myself. Not eating. Nothing cheers me up."

"I can understand that. Would you like me to refer you to someone to talk more about that?"

Mr. Huang nodded sadly. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I'd better. Can't go on like this. And Mei wouldn't come home with me like this anyway. This has all been hard on her, too."

John reached for his mouse and started clicking through Mr. Huang's chart in the patient information system. "I'll print off the referral for you and have the front desk make the appointment. They'll ring you with the date and time."

"Thanks. Thank you."

John typed up the referral and hit print. "Is there anything you need in the meantime? We could discuss an anti-depressant."

"That…might be good, yeah."

John smiled as he handed the first sheet to his patient. "Absolutely. Let me talk you through it."

Six hours later, weary and gloomier than before, John emerged from the tube station down the block from 221 Baker Street. The upstairs flat was dark—no sign of Sherlock, unless he was bumping about without the lights on as an experiment. John sighed as he finally reached their door and let himself in.

The hall was quiet, which still struck him as odd. They'd lost Mrs. Hudson almost eight years ago to pneumonia, but he still half expected her to pop out at the first sound of them coming home to learn what they'd been up to. 

Fortunately, Mrs. H had willed the flat to her niece Louise, who was a lovely girl who lived with her husband in Cornwall. Louise had decided to hold the property as an investment (very sensible) and allow them to continue to let the B flat from her. The ground floor A flat had been let several times, usually to young professionals who were rarely a bother. 221C had been fixed up and converted into storage for the two flats.

It just wasn't the same though, John thought miserably. He hung his damp coat in the hall and trudged up the stairs. He let himself into the sitting room—sure enough, it was empty.

"Great," he muttered.

After a few minutes spent putting his bag away and changing his clothes, John returned to the kitchen. He checked the note he'd left on the table that morning:  _Happy Anniversary, love. Dinner tonight? I'll book something just in case._  

It hadn't moved and there was no reply.

He swiped a hand through his grey hair, which was a bit longer and shaggier than he usually kept it, and crossed the floor to sit heavily in his chair by the fire. His old man's chair, as Sherlock liked to call it.

Was that it? Had he simply aged out of Sherlock's life?

Granted, he was not exactly as trim as he once had been, but he was still fit. He had a few aches and pains, of course, and old injuries sometimes made him cringe, but he was hardly—as Harry had suggested—past it. 

He could admit that he had a few more lines on his face, but so did Sherlock. Surely neither of them were that shallow.

Were they?

John considered this as he set about building a fire. The March evening was cool; if he was going to be home alone, he wanted some warmth and something cheerful to look at. He was waiting for the wood to catch when the doorbell rang. 

His heart fluttered, and he had the maddest image of Sherlock waiting outside the door to surprise him. He dashed down the stairs, hope leading the way. He threw the front door wide. 

"'Bout time you..."

John trailed off as he stared at the petite woman on the doorstep in the delivery service uniform.

"Sorry," she said softly. "Were you...expecting me?"

John cleared his throat and waved a hand nonchalantly. He forced a casual chuckle.

"Ah, no. Sorry about that. Thought you were someone else."

"Oh, right. Package for Watson-Holmes?"

"Yup, that's me. Well, half of it, anyway."

"If you could please scan your thumbprint for me to accept delivery."

"Right."

John placed his hand where the driver indicated then took the small parcel from her.

"Thank you," she said. "And have a lovely evening."

"You too."

John inspected the brown paper-wrapped box as he went back inside. 

Back upstairs, he settled back in his chair and tore into the package. Paper gone, he opened the box itself to find a selection of items in bubble wrap and an envelope. He opened it, hands shaking. It was a hand-made greeting card with the words "Happy Anniversary" in gilt lettering. Inside, their daughter's handwriting spelled out a greeting.

_Dear Dad and Sherlock,_

_Happy Anniversary to the best fathers a girl could ever hope for. I know it took you a while to get here, and there were some bumps along the way, but I am so glad you finally realized what you meant to each other. I know I was barely three, but I was the happiest little girl in the world to carry the flowers at your wedding._

_I'm sorry I can't be there to celebrate with you, but I'm sure you'd rather be on your own anyway. Don't be too naughty._

_Talk soon,_

_Rosie_

John let the card drop into his lap and covered his face with his hands. It had been 17 years since he'd last broken down in this sitting room. Memories flooded in as he wept—Sherlock pulling him close, stroking his neck, whispering into his hair that it was going to be okay. Eventually.

God, how he needed to believe that.


	3. Bygones

John woke to the sound of the sitting room door creaking open. He sat up in his chair, blinking awake.

"Ah, John. Sorry to wake you," Sherlock said softly, almost sounding contrite. "I didn't realize you would be out here."

"I was waiting for you."

"Right."

John waited for an explanation, but Sherlock continued to stare at the floor as he removed his gloves and coat. The old Belstaff had finally given up the ghost shortly after their wedding. Sherlock had replaced it with something of a similar style in black and then with this one in heather grey. It didn't have the same dark mystery as the old ones, but then...Sherlock had become less dark and mysterious too. For a time.

"Big case?" John tried, trying not to sound upset or angry.

Sherlock shrugged. "It turned out to be a six. I had thought there was a wonderful subplot with the wife, but that was a red herring."

"Oh. Well, still, a good few days out of this one. Was there anything you need help sorting out or..."

"It's fine. The new DI—"

"Rana?"

"Yes. She's got everything under control. Remarkably."

Sherlock sat in his chair—a modern Danish affair in dark brown leather they had purchased the year before—and crossed his legs. He glanced at the smoldering fire and tapped his long fingers against the armrest.

"Anything exciting at the surgery today?"

John cocked his head. "Well, no. It was pretty quiet. Which was good because I wanted to be home on time."

"For?"

"Our anniversary."

John regretted the words the moment he'd spoken them. They were passive aggressive, and sounded accusatory and bitter. And needy. He didn't want to start this conversation that way. He watched Sherlock's profile as he waited for a reply, which was a long time coming.

Finally, Sherlock inhaled and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry I forgot."

"It's okay—"

"I've been busy."

"I-I feel like I hardly see you anymore. Is there...have I done—"

"Let me stop you there," Sherlock said abruptly, holding a hand up. "I don't think we should do this now."

"Sherlock, I don't understand."

"There is nothing to understand. I've been busy. You feel neglected." Sherlock stood and tugged his suit jacket down. "We're both tired, and I think we might say something we regret. In my opinion, we should have this discussion in daylight, when we're both in a better frame of mind."

"Sherlock..."

"John, it's late. You should go to bed and get some rest. Everything is fine. I promise." He stopped beside John's chair and pressed a hasty kiss into the top of John's head. "Go on."

Sherlock moved into the kitchen and began taking equipment down from the shelves.

"What about you?" John called over his shoulder, still seated in his chair. "Are you coming to bed tonight?"

"Uhmmm, no. I have some experiments. Wouldn't want to wake you again. I'll kip out here."

John nodded to himself, wondering if Sherlock had missed that he'd been crying or if he simply didn't care. It was not something he would normally overlook.

John heaved himself up, knees cracking, and worked the stiffness out of his shoulder. He started toward the bedroom at the back of the flat. As he passed the kitchen table, he gestured back toward the sitting room and the package that was still sitting on the floor beside his chair.

"Rosie sent us something for our anniversary. If you're interested."

John closed the bedroom door tight behind him. He changed slowly and crawled into the cold bed with reluctance. He lay awake in the dark staring at the ceiling. 

He knew, somehow, that Sherlock would be gone again the morning, and he knew that they could not continue this way. He knew avoidance when he saw it—he'd done it himself. 

Disappearing from someone's life had its own patterns. It also had its own sounds: ice cubes in crystal, vibrating mobiles hastily palmed, cutlery on china through silent meals, rustling bedsheets to create distance, hollow laughter, sharp accusations and, eventually, slamming doors. 

Perhaps he deserved this, after everything that had happened. he and Sherlock had spent a lot of time with Ella sorting through things after Mary and Sherlock's sister. John had thought that they'd come to grips with it all. Forgiven. Moved forward.

But what if Sherlock had not?

At length, he slept. Fitfully. When morning arrived, he was still weary and carrying a weight of guilt in his midsection. He went out to the sitting room immediately, to see if Sherlock really had meant what he'd said the night before.

The room was empty. The package from Rosie had been looked through, and there was a note on top.

_John,_

_Remembered early that I have to meet Mycroft and the solicitor. It's about our parents' estate. I'm sorry we have to delay our talk, but I will be home later. Why don't we plan for supper together? A belated anniversary dinner. That new French place is supposed to be nice. I'll make a reservation._

_Sherlock_

_P.S. Rosie sent us some maple products and some native slipper things. Clearly she is enjoying Canada._

The tension in John's shoulders eased--the note was quite normal, and he could almost be persuaded that this was just a blip. Almost. He needed to ensure, though, that their dinner tonight was special. 

Mind made up, John headed for the bathroom. After a quick shower, he dressed in jeans and his favourite spring jacket and headed out.

 

After a quick stop for coffee, he took the tube to Bond Street. He'd spied something for Sherlock at Gray's a week ago, when they'd passed through on a case. He'd asked the chap to hold it for him, and had been planning to pick it up for their anniversary. Sadly, he hadn't had the heart on the day. Now though...

He hustled through the aisles to the right dealer stall, hoping against hope it was still there. The young man was still setting up when John arrived.

"Good morning, sir. How can I help?"

"I called a few days ago. About the antique mother of pearl magnifying glass?"

"Oh, right." The dealer turned and began unlocking the case behind him. "You didn't come so I put it back out. Lucky for you, it’s still here."

"That's great. Fantastic."

The man laid the item on the velvet board on the counter between them. "Fantastic condition. The silver and inlays are immaculate. And the glass is probably the best I've seen for something like this from the 17th century."

John smiled down at the magnifying glass, imagining Sherlock's delight when he opened it. 

"It’s perfect. Can you wrap it for me? It's a gift."

"Course. Just take a minute or two."

John paid the man and hovered nearby as the antique was carefully packaged and then wrapped in bright paper. When he took the bag, he felt a renewed sense of purpose—it was only a token, but it was very personal. Intimate. It would help him show Sherlock how important their bond was to him. Hopefully, their conversation would be a little easier with this to start from.

He turned away from the dealer's counter with a last "Thank you" and slammed shoulder-to-shoulder into another patron.

"Sorry. I'm so sor—Jeanette?"

"John Watson. My god. Of all the people!"

John looked up at the woman he'd dated all those years ago—before the fall, before Mary, before...all of it. She was still incredibly beautiful, with dark hair without a hint of silver, gorgeous dewy skin that hardly showed a trace of the time that had passed, and dark eyes that glittered with mischief. 

"Yeah. Wow. H-how have you been?"

"Oh, you know: married, divorced. Married again, divorced again."

"Right. Yeah."

"How about you?"

John shifted his feet, itching to flee. "Ah well, no divorces, but...well, I'm on my second as well, actually."

Jeanette stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Is it...? Please tell me it is."

John felt heat rushing to his face. "I'm married to Sherlock now, yeah."

"Well, well." Jeanette crossed her arms, suddenly looking very pleased with herself. "I followed you in the press a bit, you know. Nothing stalkery, but I did read the stories when I saw them. Didn't hear about that wedding, but I guess I might have inherited a bit of my gran's second sight after all."

John chuckled nervously. God, she had been right. A bit delayed, but right. If only he'd listened to her, and his own instincts, and run from Mary when he first learned the truth. He'd wanted to go to Sherlock right then—to confess everything that he'd been feeling before the fall, which had never really gone away and which Jeanette and Irene had both seen—but he'd been stubborn. Stupid and stubborn. And it had cost them all so much.

"Yeah, you had me. Guess I wasn't very good at hiding it."

Jeanette shrugged. "That's the way it goes. I was pissed at you for a while, but then I made Aidan. He was lovely. Until our son was born." She hesitated. "So you were married before to...a woman?"

John nodded.

"Any kids?"

"Just one. My daughter, Rosie."

"Lovely. I've got one of each. Cashel with Aidan and Deirdre with Max—my most recent disaster." She made a disgusted face and then laughed.

John laughed with her, feeling a little more at ease. It was comforting to know that in spite of the way he'd treated her, she hadn't held a grudge.

"Was I one of your disasters?"

"Nah," Jeanette sighed. "You were a crap boyfriend, but far from the worst I've had."

"Well, I am sorry to hear that. You deserve better."

"Quite right, I do." Jeanette smiled at him. It was a smile that still had the power to take John's breath away. "Say, I don't suppose you'd fancy getting a coffee or something sometime? I'm back in London after a few years away and I'm still getting my bearings. It would be nice to have a friend in town."

"Uhmm, yeah. That would be nice. Do you want to take my number?"

Jeanette held up her mobile and John spoke his name and digits into the microphone. The phone responded audibly with confirmation that the contact had been created.

"Done," Jeanette said cheerfully. "It's lovely to see you again, John. Let's do that coffee soon."

She squeezed his arm gently before turning to walk away into the growing crowd.

John watched her leave, hating himself but unable to look away from the grace of her figure as she moved. After a few minutes, he shook of the pleasant reverie of the rare good times that had been part of his brief relationship with Jeanette and returned his focus to the task ahead: repairing his marriage.

He clutched the bag with the gift inside tightly as he made his way to the exit. Hopefully, by the end of dinner that night, all would once again be right with the world.


	4. Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimmer of hope is all to quickly extinguished.

John returned home, a new spring in his step. It had been a pleasant surprise to see Jeanette. Though they hadn't parted on the best of terms, it was clear she hadn't nursed any resentment toward him. He had to admit, too, that he was comforted by her confirmation—reminder really—of how clear the connection between him and Sherlock had always been to everyone else. 

He and Sherlock belonged together. That was all there was to it. This was a rough patch. According to every form of media available, every marriage had them. They would get through it.

He spent the better part of the day working on his book. He was fortunate that a publisher had expressed interest early on. The contract gave him a pleasant (if not substantial) advance and meant that he had editorial support from the start. He kept his phone on as he worked and, sure enough, at about two in the afternoon there was a text from Sherlock with a reservation and an address.

_Meet you there XO SH_

John smiled fondly that his husband was still signing his texts after nearly twenty years together and 15 years of marriage. It was adorable.

At four, John set about getting ready. He dithered over his choice of outfit—he didn't go in for the bespoke stuff Sherlock did, but he liked clothes and was relatively fussy about his style. In the end, he chose a slim cut jacket in a pale silvery blue and grey trousers. The chartreuse and blue patterned tie had been a gift from Sherlock.

He shaved again and redid his hair. He considered (just for a moment) brushing it back as it had been when Rosie was born, but changed his mind. He liked the look well enough, but it carried too many bad memories.

Finally, at half-five he headed down the stairs to meet the cab he'd booked. The drive to the restaurant was not long, but the traffic was heavy. He occupied himself thinking about how he had would frame his concerns to Sherlock about the growing distance between them...and express his confidence that they could find their way back to each other. 

He hadn't seen Ella in some time (not since Rosie had started asking some difficult questions about her mother when she was 13, and he and Sherlock had rowed over what to tell her). Still, he did retain some of the skills his therapist had taught him for communicating. It had never, ever been his strong suit, but he knew that if his marriage with Sherlock was going to succeed where every one of his other relationships had failed, he was going to have to get better.

By the time he stepped out of the cab onto the pavement outside the chic eatery on Kensington Church Street, he was feeling positive and happy. He gripped his anniversary gift for Sherlock tightly in one hand and pulled the restaurant door wide with the other. 

A woman about his own age greeted him from behind a converted antique desk.

"Bonjour, monsieur," she began in a very elegant French accent. "Welcome to Patrice."

"Thank you. I'm meeting someone—he has a reservation."

"Very good. And the name?"

"Holmes?"

The woman swiped across the large touch screen that had been embedded in the surface of the old desk and reviewed the reservation list that appeared. "Ah, yes. This way please."

John noted that she did not bring menus as she led him toward the back of the small, dimly lit space. It had clearly been designed for intimacy. The deep booths with high backs were private—even as they passed the tables that were occupied, he could barely make out the conversations. In a secluded corner, set apart from the rest of the restaurant by an archway and an artfully draped curtain, she stopped. 

"Voila. Monsieur Holmes requested something very quiet. I understand it is a special occasion, yes?"

"Yes, very," John confirmed, smiling broadly. "Our anniversary."

"Comme c'est joli," she replied kindly. "Congratulations. I will deliver Monsieur Holmes when he arrives."

"Thank you."

John settled himself and tucked his gift under the table out of sight. He still wanted it to be a surprise. Moments later, a waiter arrived and he ordered a drink. He was just about to order another when Sherlock finally swept in.

"Apologies. I was eavesdropping on Molly's information session about the new tech. Fascinating stuff." 

He shed his coat as he talked, stuffing his gloves into the pockets and hanging it on a nearby hook. He bent in to give John a quick kiss...which became rather more insistent after a minute or two. Clearly John wasn't the only one who was touch starved. He stretched up to chase his husband's mouth, digging his fingers into the curls at Sherlock's nape. 

"Mmmmm," John rumbled contentedly as they parted. "You taste good. Peppermint."

Sherlock chuckled, taking his seat across the table from John. "So do you. Lagavulin?"

“Yeah. Just the one."

Sherlock glanced around as their server approached the table. "Do you want another or should we do wine?"

"Wine would be nice. You pick."

"Hello there," Sherlock greeted the young man who'd paused near his elbow.

"Good evening, sir. Would you like to see the wine list?"

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock took the leather-bound folder and began to scan it.

"If they have that one we had in Bordeaux..." John started.

"They do, indeed." Sherlock closed the folder and handed it back to their waiter. "The Petrus, please."

"Of course. Before I leave, would you like to hear the selected tasting menus tonight?"

"Tasting menus?" John queried.

“That's correct, sir. The chef offers three versions of a tasting menu each evening."

"Sounds fun," John said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He usually hated tasting menus. Too much experimenting and not enough actual food.

Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Relax, John. I know Chef Tell—he is a master of classic French cuisine. There will be plenty for you to enjoy."

John relaxed a little. "Oh, well, in that case, why don't you order for us?"

Sherlock nodded and leaned in to confer with the waiter about the options. A few minutes later, the young many departed. A few minutes after that, the sommelier appeared to serve their very special wine.

Sherlock tasted it first then gave the nod for the sommelier to pour out. John took a sip and let it linger on his tongue. It reminded him of...

"Our honeymoon," Sherlock said.

"It was really special. That evening, picnicking in the vineyard, with this wine. That is something I will never forget."

"Nor me," Sherlock said. He smiled, reaching one hand across the table. "Look, I know I've been—" He cocked his head, searching for the correct word. "Absent lately. I just..."

"It's a rough patch," John filled in. "It happens."

Sherlock sighed. "But I don't want it to happen. I don't like feeling like this, but…”

“Yes?”

“Look, I don’t want to ruin tonight. I want us to have the kind of dinner we used to. Can we do that? Can tonight just be…different?”

John felt a shiver of unease. He didn’t want to just let things go. He didn’t want to gloss over their problems. He knew there was something wrong, and he’d been preparing to finally deal with whatever it was. But maybe they both needed a reprieve. A break from their current reality; a little romantic dinner to ease the tension between them.

He reached across the table and took Sherlock’s hand. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s just do this the way we used to. Just you and me. Nothing else matters, just for now.”

Sherlock smiled. It was a little tentative, but it was still a smile. He squeezed John’s hand before releasing it.

“Good. Ah, here we are.” Sherlock looked up as their waiter arrived with the first course. “Let’s see about this tasting menu, then, shall we?”

For two hours, they talked and laughed about nothing in particular. They reminisced—wallowed, perhaps—in the good memories from their first few years together as a couple. After they’d eaten, John gave him his present. Sherlock exclaimed over the perfection of it and that it would be the prize of his collection. John was not surprised, but could admit to being a little disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t got anything for him. He could tell Sherlock felt bad about it, though, even if he didn’t say so.

In fact, John knew Sherlock was holding back. He was more present than he’d been in weeks, but there was still something missing. John wanted to know—of course he did—but he’d promised not to start anything. He wanted this easiness back as much as Sherlock did. Even if he had to pretend.

As the evening wore on, and the wine and then the cognac disappeared, John began to sink into the loveliness of their fairy tale. He wanted to feel Sherlock—to touch and hold and kiss and make love to him. He needed it desperately, and he could tell Sherlock was receptive.

They paid their bill and waited hand-in-hand on the pavement for their cab. When the car arrived, they tucked in close to each other and kissed for the duration of the ride home. John stroked his hand up Sherlock’s thigh under his coat, delighted to find that his husband was enjoying their closeness as much as he was.

By the time they reached 221, John was hard and desperate. They hurried inside and kissed as they shed clothes up the stairs and down the hall to their room.

“Christ, you taste fantastic,” John growled, nibbling at Sherlock’s collarbone as he smoothed his hands over Sherlock’s naked chest. Sherlock didn’t resist as John finished stripping them both and led him to the bed. Their kisses became deeper and wetter as John kneaded Sherlock’s bottom and pressed their bodies together.

“I want you so much,” John rumbled. “So much. Touch me. Please.”

“I…”

“Sherlock. Please. I need you. Touch me.”

“I…John, I…”

John kissed him again, startled when Sherlock suddenly drew back.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“I can’t do this.”

Sherlock pushed back onto his elbows and then stood. He took two steps back from the bed.

“Sherlock…”

“I can’t. I thought I could. I wanted to. I thought it could be like it was. But I can’t do this.”

John scrambled across the bed, clothes forgotten. “We should have talked.”

“And said what?”

“I don’t know! Tell me!”

“You don’t want to hear this.”

“Yes I do!” John shouted. “Please. Please tell me what’s wrong!”

Sherlock continued to back away, both hands fisted in his hair. “I can’t. I keep remembering…”

“What? Remembering what?”

“All of it!” Sherlock shouted. He released his hair to flail wildly. “Everything. Every last dark, miserable moment where I felt like I was being punished and I DIDN’T KNOW WHY!!”

John froze. There was no sound left in the room but for laboured breathing for several long moments.

“We-we talked about…this.”

“Clearly not enough,” Sherlock sneered. “Because I can’t forget it.” He strode to the window to look out over the back garden. “Every time you touch me, all I can feel is your fists. Your shoes hitting my ribs. I can’t forget the look on your face when you blamed me for Mary’s death.”

John withered, eyes closing over unshed tears. “Sherlock—” His voice broke over his husband’s name as the sins of 15 long years past rose up to meet him.

“No, I understand. I’m a machine,” Sherlock ground out. “And I know what I did—faking my death and then coming back into your life so casually. I know how awful that was. I  _learned_  that. I know it was stupid to pursue the connection to Mary’s past the way I did. I know that I opened the door—”

“But sh-she was to blame for that! Not you. Not me. Not Rosie.  _Mary_. Or whatever the hell she really was called. Her shitty past brought all of that to our door, and none of us could have prepared for it. The only reason any of us were at risk was because of her lies. Her stupid, selfish lies.”

Sherlock shook his head. “But you blamed me anyway.”

“I was grieving,” John cut in sharply. “I was out of my head with grief and guilt.” He swallowed hard on the bile that was threatening to rise. “I know that isn’t an excuse, but that’s what I—it’s what was driving me. It was so wrong. I was so wrong. I didn’t deserve what Mary did to me. You didn’t deserve what Mary or I did to you. None of us deserved Eurus…”

John caught the flinch, subtle as it was.

“What is it, Sherlock? What’s happened?”

He crawled off the end of the bed and stood at Sherlock’s back.

“Is that what all this is about? Why it’s all coming back again?”

Sherlock nodded then bowed his head to press his brow against the glass. “She’s gone.”

“ _What?_ ”

John took a step back, whether in shock or a desperate urge to pack and flee the country, he wasn’t sure.

“Pneumonia. Three weeks ago.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock rounded on him, damp-eyed and angry. “Because you will NEVER let me talk about her! I know what she did—what she is… _was_.” He drew a ragged breath. “I  _know_  that. But since Mum and Dad died, I could never, ever discuss her with ANYONE but Mycroft!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Now she’s gone and I…” He stared out into the darkness. “Why was I to blame for her? Why did she hate me?”

“She didn’t, Sherlock. She was so lost.”

“I was a little boy. She murdered my friend and tried to kill me and somehow that was  _my_   _fault_.”

“She was not sane, Sherlock.”

“I had to completely re-invent myself to survive. I turned myself into my brother to cope and yet, still—”

“Love, please…”

“And you blame me for Mary.”

“I blame  _me_  for Mary. I brought her into your life. And I never loved her the way I should have. If I had admitted that sooner, come to grips with it, maybe I could have spared us both.”

John started to move in—to touch Sherlock’s back, try to hold him—but Sherlock shook his head.

“I can’t do this. I can’t do anymore right now.”

John hesitated, suddenly feeling very cold. “What do you—are you going to sleep upstairs?”

“I should go.”

“Go where?” John asked, his voice sharp. “Where would you go?”

“I don’t know, but I need…time. I need to think.”

“You can think here. I won’t pressure you. Please, Sherlock—”

Sherlock turned to face him. In the dim light, John could make out the lines that now creased his face. He was still an unusually handsome man, but it was clear there was more than just the passage of time wearing on him. He was drawn. Weary. Sad.

“I hate feeling like this.”

“Don’t. Please.”

“I have to. I’m sorry.”

“Then let _me_ go.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to be somewhere safe and familiar. You’re hurting. You need home.”

Sherlock started to speak, stopped and then sighed. “I don’t deserve that.”

“You do.”

“You deserve better.”

“Let’s not think about this in terms of deserve. Let’s think about this in terms of need. Right now, you need to be home and you need some space. I can give you that.”

Sherlock peered at him. “Are you sure? I know these last few weeks have been difficult for you. I’ve been distant.”

John nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “And I’m not going to pretend that didn’t hurt. I’ve been worried, and I wish you’d felt you could confide in me about your sister. But…maybe that’s a discussion for later. Once you’ve had time to regroup.”

“What if I can’t?”

“What?”

“What if I can’t ‘regroup’? What if this is more than we can get through?”

John blood ran cold, and an irrational anger balled his hands into fists. “Is that...likely?”

Sherlock did not answer immediately, which drew John even tighter. Finally, Sherlock sighed.

“I don’t know. I loved you so much I was willing to do anything for you, and I believed that having you—finally—was enough. Now…”

John’s temper flared. “Fifteen years, Sherlock.”

“I am aware,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“Fifteen years, and you are just going to throw away all the good because…what about Rosie, hmmm? What about our daughter?”

“She’s not _OUR_ daughter, is she?” Sherlock shouted suddenly, throwing his arms wide. “She is not mine. She never was.”

“Sherlock…”

“She belongs to you. To you and a woman who tried to kill me!”

John staggered back, dumbstruck. “Have you always felt that way? All these years, you never loved her…”

“It was a great deal to ask of me.”

“Are you—you bastard! She was a BABY! She had never done anything to anyone! How could you possibly blame her?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, his voice icy now. “I blame you.”

“Jesus.”

“I did my best for her, but Rosie’s grown up and gone. And maybe…that’s enough.”

“Right. Fine.” John’s anger lowered his voice and turned his vision red. “So you’ve hated me and Rosie for god knows how long and you’ve just been letting that fester, letting Rosie believe you cared about her, letting me worry and wonder, and now it’s just—no. You know what. Fine. Fine. I’m the bad guy and we’re done. Okay.”

John stomped to the closet and retrieved his large travel bag. He reached the bureau and grabbed fistfuls of socks and pants, three vests and a jumper, and his pyjamas. He threw everything into the bag and returned to the closet for trousers and shirts.

For five long minutes, John packed while Sherlock stood and watched in stony silence. Which hurt almost more than all of the horrible things they’d said and the ugly, unspoken truths that had finally been aired. John collected the bag and took one last look at his husband.

Sherlock stared back at him, tears drying on his cheeks. John hesitated for a moment—hoping—before Sherlock turned away to look back out the window.

Heartbroken, John left.


	5. Brokenhearted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this--and the shortness of the chapter. I was having a crisis about where to take the story (changed my mind from the original trajectory at least twice). On track now, though!

John walked for more than an hour, weaving back and forth from main streets to back alleys. He was in shock—numb and unable to process anything around him. His mind raced with dark thoughts and recriminations. Guilt. So much guilt. Anger. And a soul-searing terror that he could only have imagined. This was what it actually felt like to lose everything.

He'd mourned before. Never like this. 

 _Rosie._ Oh, god. What in the world could he possibly tell Rosie?

When he heard a distant church bell sounding midnight—had he not passed St. George's Bloomsbury?—he finally realized where he was and how far he'd wandered. He shuffled to a stop in the centre of the park, looking around at the familiar surroundings with a hollow feeling. It was the square where he'd bumped into Stamford when he'd first arrived back in London. That day was the first time he'd met Sherlock.

Without any conscious plan, he'd made his way back to the spot where it all began. The adventure. His life—his real life—had started here. If only it hadn't taken him so long to realize it. If only.

He shivered, finally acknowledging the damp chill of the night air. He was exhausted and he knew he needed to be somewhere quiet. 

He checked his phone and located a hotel nearby. The Morton was just across the square. It would be expensive, but it didn't matter. He needed sanctuary.

He made his way to the Victorian hotel on Woburn Place. He checked in on autopilot, mechanically answering the cheerful night clerk's questions. Key in hand, he found his room and closed the door behind him.

It hit like a wave in turbulent surf, crashing over him and pulling down, under, over. His knees gave way and he collapsed. Crumpling in a heap on the carpet. 

He wept. Not the howl of shock and pain he'd made when Mary died, and not the endless silent heartbroken tears he'd cried in secret when he’d thought Sherlock was dead. 

This was gut-rending. Sobs he could neither control nor contain. He fell to his side and curled in on himself, tears and snot covering his face and he allowed the full horror of the night's events to clamour around him.

John tried to reach for any happy memory that might at least stem the tide of his anguish. He conjured the lab at Bart's on the day they met. He'd known instantly. He had. He just hadn't been able to admit it in time. And then it was too late. And then it wasn't.

He pictured Sherlock's steady hand as he held the gun on Moriarty at the pool. He would have been happy to die with Sherlock then, knowing they were going together and preventing Jim from killing again.

He thought of Sherlock's puzzled expression when he turned to John for help during his Best Man speech. Sherlock hadn’t understood why people were crying. The poor man had no idea he'd just admitted his love for John. Some people thought it was sweet—platonic, brotherly love. Some knew better. Lestrade had worn a very satisfied expression all night...until Sherlock left alone.

Why had he let Sherlock leave? Why had he gone through with the wedding at all? God, his heart had never been in it. 

He'd liked Mary. He really had. He'd cared about her more than he'd cared for any women he'd ever dated. But that was a pale reflection of the passionate bond—the aching, desperate admiration and attachment—the boundless love he felt for Sherlock. 

For as much as Sherlock sometimes drove him around the twist, that had never changed. Until tonight.

Sherlock didn't love him anymore. Perhaps never really had. It had all been a lie.

An aching moan tore from his throat as John commenced crying himself to sleep.

_________________

The hotel phone was ringing. It was remarkably shrill for a digital tone, grinding John to consciousness.

"Fuck off," he muttered irritably, pulling himself to a sitting position on the floor. 

His throat was raw and his body ached. His face was crusted and itchy. His clothing smelled of commercial cleaners from the carpet.

The phone stopped ringing. John pulled himself to his hands and knees and rested there, bracing himself for getting his aching old bones to a standing position. As he finally managed to get to his feet, stretching the kinks out of his back and his bad shoulder, the phone began to ring again. John struggled over to the bedside table to answer it.

"Yeah."

"Mr. Watson?"

John shook his head, unaware until that moment that he'd been expecting to hear Mycroft Holmes' voice. Sherlock's brother had been an omniscient omnipresence in their lives for so long that he'd almost forgotten: Mycroft had been retired for eight years.

After the debacle of Sherrinford, Mycroft's political career had stalled. He'd become a liability. They’d shunted him to an important but discreet consulting position with the intelligence services. After his parents’ deaths, he'd focused his energy on razing the family seat and rebuilding a country estate. 

No longer having access to those in power had been demoralizing for the man, though. He'd never really recovered. He'd taken himself off to the new Musgrave Hall to complete a work on the history of British espionage.

John had long suspected that someone in government kept Mycroft's number for emergencies. Undoubtedly, he enjoyed work he could do from his comfortable office at Musgrave, having finally succumbed to the corpulent reality of Sherlock's endless dietary digs.

"Sorry—Mr. Watson, are you there, sir?"

"Yeah. Yes. Sorry. What is it?"

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, sir. It's just...the privacy lock was turned but there wasn't a tag on the door. We wanted to check you are all right. And, if possible, confirm when our staff might be able to enter to do the cleaning."

"Isn't it kind of..."

The word “early” died on John's lips as he glanced at his watch. 16:15. 

"Sorry. I didn't realize it had gotten so late. I, uhm, wasn't feeling well and wanted sleep. I'm feeling better now."

"Of course, sir. I'm terribly sorry to disturb."

"No, it's fine. Look, just give me an hour to shower and change and then the room is yours until late. Fair?"

"Excellent. Thank you so much, Mr. Watson. Enjoy your evening."

John sat heavily on the bed, trying to gather enough mental energy to decide what to do with himself all night. Stamford was teaching in Scotland these days. He'd long since lost contact with Bill and most of his other army mates. And, of course, they'd lost Greg in the line of duty in 2024. 

He pulled his phone from his trouser pocket, about to give in and call his sister, when he remembered. _Jeanette!_

Feeling slightly buoyed by the idea, he checked his messages. Sure enough, there it was—a cheerful invitation to grab a drink with an old friend. 

Christ knew, he could use one.


	6. Boon

John sent a hasty and affirmative reply, agreeing to meet Jeanette at a well-known wine bar on Oxford Street. He reached down to retrieve his bag from where he’d dropped it on the floor the night before. He had no real memory of what was in it—not surprising given the state he was in when he’d packed.

John pulled a pair of clean jeans and a rumpled jumper out of the bag and laid them on the bed beside him. Perhaps if he took them into the en suite while he showered, the steam might help.

“Better than nothing,” he muttered.

But what about…

He dug to the bottom of the pack to no avail. He had completely forgotten to put in his shaving kit. No toothbrush, no hairbrush, no razor, no deodorant.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” He threw the bag across the bed.

He sat for a moment, indulging in just a few more minutes of self-pity. Soon, though, his need to be clean—and his desperate need for human company—drove him up. He stepped off of the large carpet the bed was set on and onto the smooth hardwood. Sometime during the course of the night, he’d managed to slip his shoes off. He glanced around and noticed that he kicked them off under the edge of the bed.

He padded across to the grey-tiled washroom. It had a modern bright white sink, glass shelves and a floor-to-ceiling shower stall—the width of the room—in lieu of a tub. He hung his clothes on the back of the door and turned the shower on, set for maximum heat. As steam began to fill the room, he discovered a gift: a discreet but well-stocked selection of toiletries.

“Day made.”

Nearly forty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, towel around his hips, in a cloud of steam. While he couldn’t say he felt anything like “better,” he certainly felt more hygenic.

He dressed quickly and started to pull his jacket on when his mobile went.

“Sherlock.”

The text was brief: _Not at Harry’s. R U safe? – SH_

John felt a niggle of relief. _At a hotel. Couldn’t think where else to go._

There was an agonizing pause as he waited for a reply.

_Sorry for last night…the way it happened. – SH_

_Me too_ John replied, wishing there really was such a thing as a sarcastic font.

_Wish I hadn’t said that – SH_

John sat on the edge of the bed, considering his response. Just because Sherlock was sorry it had been said didn’t mean he hadn’t meant it.

_Still true?_

_I don’t know. – SH_

John’s bad hand curls into a fist. He wanted desperately to lash out: If you felt that way, why the hell did you ever let our relationship go anywhere? Why did you marry me? Why did you lie about how you felt? Why did you take on Rosie with me if I—we—weren’t what you wanted?

Cold shivers of recognition slid down his spine.

“Jesus.”

There wasn’t a single word of it that didn’t apply to him as well. Every single recrimination could just as easily have been levelled at Dr. John H. Watson.

John swallowed the tears of shame that threatened as he tapped out his reply.

_Are you eating properly?_

_Sort of. Did you remember your blood pressure medication? – SH_

_No. Will grab some at the surgery tomorrow._

_Don’t forget – SH_

_I won’t. There is soup in the freezer._

_OK – SH_

_Call me if you need me._

John waited a few minutes, but there was nothing more. He swiped at his watery eyes and put his phone in his jacket pocket. With a deep breath, he stood and contemplated the still-made bed. He had grown far less conscious of people’s opinions over the years, but not so much so that he wanted to invite strange looks from or gossip among the hotel staff. He tugged the bed apart and mussed it appropriately—no sense letting everyone know he’d slept on the floor.

With that, he left the room.

_________________

The wine bar was crowded. It was a chic, overcrowded place the likes of which he would ordinarily avoid. But then, he reminded himself, the whole point of the exercise was a nice change of pace and taking his mind off the things he ordinarily would do.

Jeanette had already arrived and waved cheerfully from a cozy table near the back of the glittering black and white room. As he neared, she stood and greeted him with a quick peck to the cheek.

“Hello, you,” she said, smiling.

“Hiya,” John replied. “Thanks so much for getting in touch. This is a really nice treat.”

“For me too!” Jeanette sat while he took his coat off and hung it on the back of the chair. “With two kids, I haven’t had much grown-up time in the last 15 years.”

John chuckled as he sat. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Being a parent is great…”

“But hard as hell,” John finished.

Jeanette laughed out loud. “Exactly! God, I love my kids to bits, but I can honestly say that 10 years ago I might have sold both of them for ten minutes in the bath by myself.”

“Oh, I can definitely relate to that,” John commiserated.

He turned his attention as the waiter arrived, listening to the wine and food options. In the end, he settled on the syrah. Jeanette ordered another chardonnay, and they agreed on a couple of tapas dishes.

Once the waiter had left, Jeanette leaned in and rested her elbows on the table.

“All right, Watson, this is where it starts. We’ve got a lot of years to make up for: Tell me your life.”

They talked for nearly five hours, closing down the wine bar and ending up walking a couple of blocks to a 24-hour coffee house. John relaxed into the evening, feeling the tension ease out of his shoulders at the comfortable rapport he still shared with Jeannette.

There was no question he’d been a rubbish boyfriend, but even after all these years, the things they had in common—which had drawn them together in the first place—were still there. A love of thriller novels. Movie comedies. Pink Floyd. Rugby (The Saracens). Jeanette was still as funny and clever as she always had been. Had he not already been hopelessly in love with Sherlock back when they’d first met, he might have been able to appreciate how amazing she really was.

He asked about her career to learn that she had given up teaching after her first divorce and taken up writing curriculum. She glowed as she talked about scope and sequence and pedagogy—John could easily see how passionate she was about education. She shared that she had taken several contracts over the years, not only in the UK but abroad, and was now doing a lot of teacher professional development.

Finally, they dug out their photos and talked about their children. John knew he was gushing a bit about Rosie. He couldn’t help it. She was his only child. And she was, in fact, amazing.

Fortunately, Jeanette didn’t mind the parental embellishment. She talked equally as sentimentally about her children: son Cashel, 17, and daughter Deirdre, 13. Her son was a good kid, she said—quiet and kind. He still spent part time with his dad, which she was okay with. Her first ex was a decent enough guy and a pretty good parent. He’d just been a lousy husband.

As she recounted that first marriage, and then the second, John found himself identifying with each of the men in turn. Aidan was pleasant and well-meaning. He was also distracted and had a tendency to be selfish. But he wasn’t cruel. They’d fought until the end, but managed to maintain a civil relationship after the divorce.

Jeanette’s second husband, Max, was another story. John listened with interest as she shared Max’s story—surviving war in Bosnia, eventually making his way to Britain and training to be a doctor. It all sounded horribly familiar, particularly when Jeanette admitted that she’d known when they met that Max’s relatively placid demeanor hid a tortured soul, but that she had thought she would be able to help.

In time, Max became restless and short-tempered. She’d asked him to get help, but he refused. In the end, he’d begun lashing out violently at her and the children. She’d packed up the kids and ended up at her sister’s for a while. Fortunately, the kids were okay.

Cashel was a classical pianist. He’d been studying at the conservatory since he was 12 and intended to see it through. She was concerned that he wouldn’t be able to support himself, but she would never let him see that. He was her tender-heart—he loved people and felt things deeply and was therefore often hurt. Still, she wouldn’t change him for the world.

Deirdre, on the other hand, was pragmatic and hard-headed. She hated injustice and had already announced her intention to become a human rights barrister.

“I’m worried sick about her, though,” Jeanette admitted, finishing off the last sip of a second latte. “She’s struggled with asthma since she was little, and its only getting worse at the moment.”

“You know,” John began, “I have a good friend in the asthma and allergy clinic at Royal Brompton. They’re running new trials for kids and teens with asthma.”

“Do you think she might qualify?”

“I’d be happy to check,” John said. “It certainly couldn’t hurt.”

“That would be…amazing. Honestly, I would do just about anything to make sure Dee-dee has every chance in life.”

“I’m happy to do whatever I can.”

“You know you don’t have to,” Jeanette said, grinning slyly. “It’s not like you owe me a debt or something. I’m long since over what went on with us.”

John rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, embarrassed. “That obvious, was it?”

“John, you are a good man with terrible relationship skills—or at least you were. You were always making things up to me instead of making them good to start with.”

“I was, wasn’t I.”

Jeanette smiled kindly and patted his forearm. “But I can say with confidence that it seems like you’ve grown. You were never, ever this good a listener before. Letting me go on and on about my life all night, and you really seemed…engaged.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it was really nice. To be heard and understood. I always had the sense back then that you were listening to me because it was expected, not because you were genuinely interested in the answers.” She sighed. “But then, obviously, you were in love with someone else.”

“I was. But I was a dick, and I am sorry about that. I had a lot to learn.”

“Thanks.” Jeanette grinned. “Oh, you know, we never got around to your first wife. Rosie’s mum.”

“Did I not?” John blew out a heavy breath. “Well, that’s a difficult period. It’s…complicated.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I know Sherlock was gone for a while and—you know what. I’m not going to pry. Maybe we’ll get the chance to do this again sometime…and then, who knows?”

“That would be really nice. It’s just—Sherlock and I are having a bit of a rough go at the moment.”

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry.”

“I enjoyed the chance to spend the night with a friend and not think about it for a while. It’s been lovely.”

“Well, I don’t know what’s happened between you, but as someone who’s been in the wars let me just say this: Fight hard.”

John nodded, a lump forming in his throat.

“If Sherlock is the man you always believed him to be, then your life together is worth fighting for.”

“I’m going to try,” John croaked.

“Oh, look what I’ve done!” Jeanette reached into her pocket and produced a tissue.

John took it gratefully, trying to maintain his dignity in front of the club refugees and homeless people that filled the dimly lit café.

“Good lord, is that the time?” Jeanette glanced at her watch and started to gather her things. “My cab is going to be here any minute. If I don’t get home, my kids will think something terrible has happened to me.”

John stood as she did and they embraced. Jeanette patted his back sympathetically and kissed his cheek once more.

“Take care, John. Until next time?”

“Until next time.”


End file.
